This Is Home
by panicpeachpit
Summary: Multi-chapter. A single letter is all it takes to rock Ethan's world. Hooked on decoding the mystery it brings, he neglects trying to move on from grief regarding his late brother and keeps his head in the clouds. Questionable decisions are made whilst everything begins to unravel. K plus, mild language, pre-warned mature content. Based from Sept '18 onwards.
1. Chapter 1

_"Oh, you're going to be fine, little toad. I promise. You're going to go and find a family who will give you everything - everything we couldn't."_

 _ **\- Ethan Hardy, November 2015.**_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

 **Three years later.**

An empty-calendar day awaits Ethan. It seems crucial to begin it, at the start of dawn, with some form of productivity. A black coffee materialises onto the stainless kitchen counter and he pulls open the crooked blinds. The interior of his flat is sunlit, marinated with the scent of caffeine, and echoey with silence.

One good morning text waits for him. Two incipient letters wormed through the postbox onto the coir doormat. Ethan pulls out the phone, presses the passcode into it, and replies to the text gratefully. A mental pact is made to call her later. A pleasant distraction from the many hours of nothing he'll have to endure - Ethan is aware he is rather different from most people after having this thought, as most relish the chance to lavish in laziness. It's like there's a clock in his brain. He can't waste an hour.

If an empty flat isn't solitary enough, one at remotely four in the morning is positively eliciting the feeling that he's the last man on earth. He turns on the radio, as to not feel the gaping gap of being alone so intensely, and takes out his overused iron. And so the dull beginning to his day truly commences.

The iron presses creases out of dress shirts, working them out meticulously. He folds the garments cautiously and rests them on the sofa arm. On the last pair of trousers, it topples the pile, and they fall like a tired toddler in a mess on the sofa. Ethan lets himself sigh.

He pulls his weary self from the empty living room, longing to fall right back into his rumpled bed sheets. In the doorway of his room, dissimulated by lack of light, his legs bump labelled cardboard boxes. Fastened with brown sellotape, he recognises his own neat scrawl and expels a breath. That's a chunk of his life, packed into a box.

Much persuasion had been used on him in order for him to even entertain the notion of moving out. They say it'll help ease feelings of grief. Ethan thinks they're wrong, but he isn't fond of arguments when the persuaders (Charlie, mainly, and Alicia with unsubtle digs from Connie) were simply doing their best.

They just don't understand. The flat size might be astronomically immense, empty and glaring. The walls might be painted with a thin layer of cream to hide the glaring pink. Rent might be pricey and he may be paying for a bedroom that isn't used anymore. Yet moving is wrong. He's not ready to say goodbye to this place just yet.

* * *

A familiar ringing of his phone is a decent distraction. Ethan lets it go off for a ring and a half, in a bid to hide desperation which would surely show if he were to answer it straight away, afore pressing it between his ear and shoulder.

" _Can't sleep?"_

"Hello, Alicia," he says, and finds himself immediately hoisted from solitude. "No. Insomniac hours, I'm afraid this is my prime. What's your excuse?"

" _Well, actually. There was a fascinating case on cystic fibrosis that was forwarded onto me by Robyn, and I had to research it."_

Ethan finds solace in being able to laugh. "Right. Now give me the real reason - I'll have you know that I'm not that easy to fool." Clever as she might be, Alicia is marginally the sort to deprive herself of beloved sleep for unnecessary research.

" _Alright, I had a bad dream. Monsters and that. Enclosed hallway. Distract me, will you?"_

He is happy to oblige for both of their sakes.

* * *

Bubbly water wets the half-rolled sleeves of his sleeping shirt. Draining the sink, he continues to listen to the detailed theory that Alicia prattles on about. Something about fate being non-existent. Coincidences rule, and he agrees; the mere thought that there's a plan for every human is enough to make him smirk. He disagrees with the notion that everything is planned.

"I don't believe that it all transpires for a reason. Additionally that everything is planned by predominant forces," Ethan says, drying the rim of a glass. "Say an ant is stepped on. The purpose of that? Grief throughout the colony? There's no preponderant good, no plan, for a dead ant."

" _It's unnecessary, you're right. Some tragedies shouldn't happen. If it were down to me, we'd be devoid of bad experiences."_

"Though some could argue that it's the bad experiences that shape us."

" _I suppose,"_ Alicia says, and he knows that he's got her thinking now. He switches the battery saver on his phone with semi-slippery hands. " _Though do you ever wonder who you'd be if bad things hadn't happened?"_

"Probably forevermore the same person. Never weathered or cynical. Naive and awkward."

" _Different, then. Myself, too, perhaps. You know, I misunderstand the idea that everything happens for a reason, like you - I think it happens, and we cope with it, making gold from it. Then again, I can't help but sway toward thinking that you can't have the sunshine without the rain. Perhaps the bad happens so we can appreciate the good."_

"I don't know. I think it's a matter of perspective and situation. For instance, the melting of an ice-cream. It makes no difference in the long term, virtually pointless, deriving someone of a snack."

Alicia hums from the other end.

"Or, something like, I don't know, crashing your car into a tree whilst driving tipsy. A life lesson. A punishment for potentially deadly incidents. Did that happen for a reason, or was it just an accident? It could've ended so badly."

" _Then you consider something like a… sexual assault, or a murder. And those would feel like there was no point to them."_

"I suppose if we can convince ourselves that the bad happened for a reason, it makes us less angry at the universe. We can label it as a life experience."

" _I'm still angry."_

"So am I," Ethan says, and drains the sink. Bubbly water disappears down the plughole, a distorted version of his bed-tousled and sleepless self-reflected against a spoon.

"You reckon the world has a plan for us, though?"

A laugh escapes. Cynical to the core, he is. Nowadays anyway. "No. No way," he notes a silence after he says that, and bites his pride back. "Well, possibly." It lacks any conviction.

Obviously, she's disappointed but she does a good enough job at hiding it.

" _Anyway, how's the washing up going?"_

"Fine. You sped it up for me."

" _Glad to know my rambles have a purpose."_

"They do. Though, mind if we tackle something more light-hearted next time? I'm afraid it is just too early in the day to start it off on a bad foot. If we start off angry at the universe, surely it should do its worst to punish us by sticking us in traffic or something." And, additionally, he'd rather keep her in an upbeat mood.

" _True. I'll keep it lighter. Best not upset it. Let's move on."_

"Yeah, let's."

Whilst she chatters on, sounding so close that he can fool himself that she's right by him, stood barefoot on cream carpet wrapped in a comfy nightie, he busies himself. Scooping clothes into his bedroom, sweeping, the flat sparkling.

Ethan switches on a light, the bulb flickering a few times before flooding the hallway with effulgence. He basks in the light. A couple framed photographs hang on the wall, a mirror smudged with grubby fingerprints in need of a good rub. Cardboard boxes line the skirting board.

Without meaning to, a sigh slips out. It's enough to alert Alicia the same way a sudden groan would.

" _You're getting down about the move, aren't you?"_

"No, no. Just tired." She doesn't reply to his lie. "Bit premature to start grieving for this place anyway, I reckon. What with the fact that I've barely found a new home yet."

" _You're meant to be looking!"_

"I have been," Ethan says, the same way a procrastinating teenager would lie to their parents about something. "I've been looking at every spare chance I've got."

" _Listen, moving out of that place is what's best for you. Even Charlie agreed. God, even Connie did. Did you at least have a good look through those brochures I brought you?"_

Ethan eyes them, resting on the teeny table by the front door, home to sundry homeless junk. He picks them up and drops them into the waste paper bin with a satisfying clunk. Goodbye, brochures with ecstatic smiling couples receiving the key to their great fabby new house and life. He can't relate to them and their bliss which isn't reliant on anti-depressants.

"I had a good read, yes."

A stack of mismatched mail reposes on a hessian mat, a ring of a coffee stain hidden by it. Keys rest adjacent to it, and a half-finished can of energy drink sits atop of his bank cards. It's a sorry sight, a shameful part of his home which the lesser spotted guest is forced to look at. He doesn't have a miscellaneous (ie random shit) drawer like most households have - he has a messy table with a leg coming loose where he stores his crap. It's where his customary meticulous organization comes to die.

Swiping the letters into his grasp, he leafs through them whilst Alicia continues to talk. Car insurance, water bill, more expenses he'll need a loan taken out to pay off. Ethan tears a leaflet into strips, paper landing on the waste paper bin below, and he examines a letter from an unknown sender.

Ruth Hills.

Addressed not to him, but his older brother.

Arguably, when dead, privacy becomes a moot point. Cal never relished Ethan intervening in private matters but unfortunately, curiosity won the battle instead of respecting the privacy of the dead. Ethan sticks a finger through the seam of the envelope flap and ruptures it, ravished by the desire to know what lies inside.

When he's read it - twice, no less, drinking in the words, holding it under a strip of light - the confusion doesn't lift. It stays, heavy, a cloud over his head. The letter falls from his fingers, landing on the same mat that hurts his bare feet most days. He stares at it like an intruder.

" _Uh, Ethan? Has the phone line cut out, or are you in a daydream?"_

Familiar black frames rest on the hessian mat alongside the forgotten post. He takes them, drops to his knees and picks the letter up again. Glasses pushed on, he reads the first line with better, clearer vision. A beloved name, sinking into his brain, and an unknown one, panicking the same brain with confusion.

" _Ethan?"_

"I'm sorry, Alicia, I have to go," he hangs up the line, phone forgotten. Cradling the letter in his hands, he knows that his curiosity won't be satiated until he finds out exactly what this means.

He supposes he can't move out of this flat until he has. Time is truly of the essence. Like a hypocrite, he commences to wonder if the world does have a plan for him after all.

* * *

 **a/n:** _new fic! hope you enjoyed the first chapter;_ i'll _be continuing with other fics but_ i _wanted something new to focus on for a bit :)_

 _also i changed my username from panic-at-casualty to pxnic-at-mxdnight to now panicpeachpit, thought i oughta mention it haha_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two**

* * *

 _Dear Caleb Knight,_

 _It is with a heavy heart that I regret to inform you that we have decided to put our adoptive daughter back into the care system. We have encountered a difficult quandary; one which we don't want her to encounter at such a precious stage in her development. Whilst one may argue that it could reinforce her resilience, I fear we're not the type to help her grow from this. I can't bear to see her fall apart._

 _I understand that being tossed from pillar to post is harmful - I'm aware of your own childhood, and this must feel awful to hear. Yet we can't let her watch this terrible event. I hope she will, one day, forgive us for taking her back into the care system._

 _We are unaware of her next home. The pain of losing her is so great, I asked concretely not to be informed - after all, I can't even know the person's name who will take over mothering or fathering of my child. In return, we can't inform you where she'll be going. We're extremely sorry. However, we have noticed the hint that, with your lack of contact, perhaps you won't mind her whereabouts a large amount if you haven't been keeping in touch._

 _Our lovely, impeccable, intelligent adoptive daughter adored getting to know you. I do hope you can one day forgive us for snatching her away. Some circumstances can't be foreseen, and disasters occur without a single choice of ours to shape it. We only had the opportunity to make one choice - and we hope it was the right one. Truly, we do._

 _Thank you for making her smile. We appreciate you and everything that you have done._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Ruth Hills._

It's come to the point where he is doing most things to humor people. Viewing a flat being one of them.

In all fairness, the place is... decent. Perhaps he'd be half-considering it if the mystery letter wasn't in his pocket, folded, creased, riddled with confusion and many slews of inside references that he can't decode without context. Yet he cannot even entertain the notion. It's a building of concrete and mortar with clean carpet and wallpapered walls but he can't see it as anything more than a commitment. A goodbye to ever finding out what this means.

What if another letter is sent? What if that explains everything?

"We've spoken about the local area and amenities. Any questions?"

Yes. Many questions. None about the flat. None that she can answer. Ethan looks at the woman, presented in tight black trousers, pressed shirt, hair wound up into a bun. A clipboard is pressed to her chest. A headteacher vibe. The sort who would shout at you for rolling your eyes when all you did was move them fractionally, because she was having a bad day and wanted to take it out on someone. Every day a new victim.

It's possible his view could be biased.

She blinks, wide eyed. "Questions?" She says again, tipping her head, increasingly hostile.

He pretends to consider. "I do believe that my friend gave me a good overview of this place, actually. I think she answered all questions for me." Alicia sure did. All she ever does anymore is text pictures of _'for rent'_ signs during her daily commute to work through car windows, or e-mail links to sites. Charlie and Connie aren't much better. Connie keeps recommending such expensive places that he's wondering if she's trying to bankrupt him. Charlie likes to capture Ethan in his spiders webs on increasingly frequent occasions and talk to him until Ethan is almost convinced that moving out is worth it. _Almost_.

"Well," the woman looks about, shoulders straightened out. "I'll let you make your own judgement on the place - five minutes."

"Yes, of course."

Her heels click down the halls that he can't imagine ever being his, and the door closes. It doesn't creak ever so slightly like his one does. Just a soft click. He's gotten used to the battered, over-used, imperfectly perfect state his flat is in.

He supposes, if he were in the market for buying a place, this could fit the bill. It's secure. The garden is maintained by the neighbours downstairs. The local area is near to work, a train station just down the road, the bus stops a couple turns around. No red flags stick out. It is adjacent to the main road yet the traffic noise is blocked out by thick windows.

However, it's more closed off. The kitchen isn't open to the living room. There are too many perfectly closing doors. Too much hidden space. He can't imagine himself pottering around at three in the morning, brewing a hot drink, basking under a flickering light, hearing ghosts of snores in the next room. There's comfort in familiarity. This is too different. The counter doesn't look right (no small knife marks from when a certain someone forgot to use a cutting board whilst dicing an apple), no scratched oven top, nothing with faults, too squeaky clean and cut off. He'd hated when his keys had scratched the oven top - but now, he remembers when it happened and it brings him a curious sort of joy. How he'd thrown them there to run to reply to the buzzer, letting his brother in from the pouring rain, watching him trudge up a staircase, laughing at his drowned rat state. Then groaning at the key marks when he saw them but not really caring. How could he care? How could he even dare? He had _everything_.

Ethan supposes he ought to look as though he's even considering buying this place. He stands by the window - too small, too new - and looks past the pristine curtains. A wall covers any view. It's grey. More flats, more people piled on top of eachother. Curtains all pulled.

"The bathroom window holds a better view."

Ethan restrains his flinch at her materialising behind him. Nodding at nothing, he keeps admiring that same, grey, blank wall.

"Windows are all properly insulated. Draught-free, double glazed." Her voice is soft. Wheedling.

"Good to know."

"Have you thought of any questions at all?"

Ethan looks around the place, taking it in. He can't. It isn't home. It isn't a place he could ever rest his head. It's a pile of bricks made into a mediocre place. Of course he's not going to find a place where his good memories will materialize, it's always going to be a scarily blank canvas; he'll have to make new memories, but a few key people are missing nowadays for that to be successful. It could never be the same. Ever.

Wordlessly, he shakes his head, and she talks on about the carbon monoxide detectors like he asked. He makes a quick, effortless decision. This can't be home. And he's not sad about the could-have-beens.

It's probably faulty anyway. The toilet likely doesn't flush, the boiler might be on the blink the majority of the time. The bath and shower sealants might be peeling. He might be forbidden from decorating; left to live somewhere without his own stamp on it. The heating might be bad, the radiators might be dodgy, he might have to spend all his time wrapped in blankets to keep a good core temperature. There's probably mould in the corners and loose wires.

Ethan pulls his wrist up to view theatrically. He doesn't take into account the time on his watch, the cuff of his sleeve covering half the face. He knows his time has been wasted regardless. "Oh, gosh, is that... I'm afraid I really must be off."

"Wouldn't you at least like to know the rent prices? The deposit and conditions for the landlord deducting money from it?"

"I'm sorry, I-"

Her voice is now high and tetchy. Taut like a stretched elastic band. "The running costs of the property?"

"I'll be in touch," he says, reeling off his thanks, knowing that every single word is a lie.

At home, he has another letter posted through the box. He bends and picks it up.

 _Dear Caleb Knight,_

 _I'm afraid it slipped my mind last time to include my phone number in case you fancied getting into touch without the hassle of writing a letter. It is awfully old-fashioned nowadays what with instant messaging, where there's no risk of it getting lost in the mail or water damaged._

 _I don't have internet, but I've changed my home phone since downsizing somewhere nearer to Holby City._

 _There is no pressure to call me. I thought it was good to have the option. God knows you haven't had much of a say in anything else._

 _My number is printed on the back of this sheet._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Ruth Hills._

Ethan turns it for the number. The letter is wavering in his trembly fingers; surely, more information ought to solve this. Yet he's no more informed than before. He doesn't know who this woman is. One thing is for certain that the woman is angling for a response.

A text chimes his phone. Connie. Something about working an extra shift. Understaffed. Work can wait. This can't.

Ethan pushes the number into the keypad, holding it to his ear. He can hear his blood whooshing in his ear.

It takes the second ring, a thousand anxious stomach squeezes and a full pace of his flat for anyone to pick up. It's a man's voice. Gruff, but weak. Like he's winded.

He fights to keep his voice under suitable control. "Hi, I'm Doctor Ethan Hardy," the title slips - a habit, unfortunately, he'll never stop introducing himself as such. "I hope this is the right number - is this Ruth Hills?"

 _"No. Her husband."_

"Right, sorry. Could I speak to her?"

 _"What d'you want? I'm not letting her speak to some stranger. Can't trust anyone."_

"I, uh," he taps his fingernails on the unit ahead. He looks at the reflection cast against the fridge. Anxious, confused. Needing answers.

 _"Hello?"_

"Answers." Ethan swallows. "That's what I want."

 _"Answers about what?"_ He doesn't seem to be giving up anytime soon. Though Ethan wishes he would - both for his own sake, and the man's, because his breathing sounds raspy. Like he needs a good sit down.

"If it... helps, I'm Caleb Knight's brother. He is- _was_ older. Messy. Tall, a bit of a mess. In the best way, of course. Cal, he prefered. Chose the surname himself. Cal Knight."

There's a pause. A crackle. Inhale - then an eventual, _"I'll get her for you. What's your name again?"_

"Ethan Hardy."

"Right, okay-" he breaks into a weak shout, muffled when a distance is put between his mouth and the receiver "Ruth? Someone on the phone for you."

Ethan clasps the second letter in his hand, resting the phone against his shoulder, taking the first one out. _Adoptive daughter. I'm aware of your own childhood. Can't bear to see her fall apart. Thank you for making her smile._

A voice startles him _. "Hi, it's Ruth. You know Cal?"_

"Yes, yes, I do. Very well." He straightens his back, praying he won't stumble on a single word. "I was hoping you could give me some answers, please. I'm afraid you're probably the only one who can answer them."

* * *

 **Guest:** _I appreciate that! Truly, they made that place a home. It can't even feel right to move from where your old life was. Moving on is hard of course. We shall see eh! Your vote of confidence is lovely, I very much hope I don't disappoint you. Thank you for your review!_

 **TheBeautifulNerd:** _Thank you - description is something I prefer to write to be honest, dialogue can sound forced when I write it on occasion. His character definitely has changed. A mix of grief, growing up, it's all weathered him. Sad to lose the old Ethan, but people change, and I dunno, pieces of the old awkward Ethan still crop up eventually. I'll probably always like him either way though. Though the old Ethan is unforgettable; I understand why you prefer him. Here is chapter two, thank you for your review._

 **20BlueRoses:** _You got it - we'll have to find out (or you will anyway, haha, I know it alllll). Worry not, there's gonna be so many mentions of Cal that it'll be as though he's still there - what on earth is moving on, haha. Aw thank you so much; good point that he might really feel the limit of time due to his diagnosis, it's definitely a weight. Thank you for your review!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three**

* * *

As luck would have it, he has little choice in today's outcome; going to work. He enters the hospital, distracted and sleep deprived, entering the realms of disorganization and crammed beds. He wonders if they'll ever have a day where they can get by comfortably. It is exhausting - though he can't say it isn't worth it.

Bring a person back from the brink... what could be more meaningful? He knows that science and math guided him to this path initially, but so did the wish to make people better, to fix what's wrong (or try to, as it isn't always as straightforward as popping a joint back into place) with them and himself. To become self-sufficient. Put people back together again. To know that if the worst happens to someone he loves, he'll be there to fix it. He'll always know how to make it better.

Unless he isn't there. Unless they're left alone, suffering, without a smudge of hope, none at all. Unless that happens. Unless a missed phone call is all it takes.

 _Suppress it._

He focuses entirely on maintaining a friendly, composed expression, noticing his colleagues juggling patients like acrobats, and marvelling. It is truly a talent to manage to stay kind and professional after negative hours of sleep, legs aching from too much walking, finger joints inflamed from constant handwritten notes. They offer good mornings wearing vomit stained scrubs. He repeats, points, they groan when they notice the stains. They work as a unit. He feels like he's in a family on a good day; maybe today is a good day.

"Dropped something, mate."

Noel is trailing behind him, a crumpled up piece of paper in his hand. Notes from his prior phone conversation, printed on his laptop because he needed to trust the writing would be decipherable even if he's slow at typing. He couldn't risk handwriting it. Not when his neat scrawl gets dangerously close to loopy and messy like every doctor does. He couldn't be unaware of a single word. Though it isn't inclusive of his own 'um's and 'ah's.

"What's this, then?" Noel peels it open without permission.

Ethan, without meaning to be too harsh, snatches it from Noel's grasp. Noel looks taken aback. "Private matters, Noel."

Noel - or anyone, really - would ever understand his insatiable urge to know the truth. He knows this for concrete certain.

* * *

Ruth: Answers? What sort of answers?

Myself: I suppose I should give you some context first. You (pause) sent letters. Letters to my brother.

Ruth: I did. Did your brother receive them?

Myself: I'm afraid he passed away in April of 2017. So he didn't, no, unfortunately.

Ruth: Oh gosh, I had no idea. I'm so sorry.

Myself: It's okay (lies). I hope that you don't mind, but I did read them.

Ruth: That's okay. It would've been weird if you didn't.

(standard awkward pause)

Ruth: I understand now. You read them and you're confused about the subject matter. It must've felt like a lot if you're entirely in the dark. Did your brother never tell you about Tilly?

Myself: Tilly?

Ruth: Right. You know, I'm not so fantastic over the phone. I'd much prefer it if I could see you.

Myself: Sorry, yes, understandable. You don't know me. I get that. What time can you do?

(plans a time, she gives address)

Ruth: I'll look forward to seeing you.

Myself: (awful awkward laugh) Yes, I'm looking forward to seeing you too.

(ends)

* * *

"Right. Too private for me to see. I get that."

Ethan is jerked back to reality rudely. His insides feel heavy. He was harsh, but Noel's extreme stiffness doesn't seem justified. Ethan knows the staff haven't been the same with him since his clinical lead stint, but he's working on regaining back the wobbly bond they had once. He smiles, apologetic, even though he's irked by Noel's careless behaviour and the immediate grudge.

"Sorry, I... thank you for giving it back. It could've ended up anywhere."

"No problem," Noel says, grumbling, and turns to return to his usual perch at the reception desk.

It'll never be the same. Ethan knows that he wants this to be his family - because, let's face it, he'll never have his own, not with his dodgy genes - but he's struggling when he seems to be giving but never receiving. They say hellos, but they do that with everyone. They're paid to be hospitable. Ethan wonders if it'll ever be the same as he walks, hands clenched uncomfortably.

"Ooh, hiya," a familiar Geordie voice says. "Forgot how to answer your phone, have you? Good to know you can still work even if your phone hand is broken."

Ethan feels guilty enough to look apologetic. Alicia rests against an Admin desk, and he's forced to stay too.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to just hang up on you like that the other day. Wasn't intentionally rude."

"Why, then?"

"I've got a lot on my mind. I'm sorry," he shuffles, uneasy. "How are you?"

"Yeah. Decent." She crosses her arms and leans. "I, ah, had a counselling appointment with someone new today. Well, this morning. Doesn't really matter about the technicalities."

"How'd that go?"

"Actually, it went alright." Her smile is telling the truth.

"I'm glad," he says, feeling that deeply. "Really glad. Must be a weight off of your shoulders. Someone to talk to without personal strings attached."

"Well, that's the definition of a counsellor."

"Loosely. A counsellor is defined as-"

"How'd _your_ appointment go yesterday then? With the estate agent? Must've heard back by now."

"Doctor Hardy," Connie swans past, eyes never quite looking at his, voice steely firm. "Doctor Munroe. No time for that; we don't need two staff members standing around looking pretty when there's work to be completed. Get to work, please." Her footsteps echo.

When she goes, Alicia raises an eyebrow. "She called us pretty."

"It's an expression. I can't imagine it was intended for me," he begins off, relieved of any excuse to get away from questioning. "And yes, it went how I expected."

"How's that?"

Awful. "Great," he says.

"Fantastic! Have you heard any-"

"Estate agent is speaking to the landlord right now. Fingers crossed, right?"

Lying is like rolling down a hill. It's hard to get started, then it's hard to stop. He's on a literal roll. They came out of his mouth before he can stop them, little white fibs that he knows he'll be ashamed of later. Alicia believes them without a doubt - because why would _innocent_ Ethan lie?

"Fingers crossed!" She says, gleeful.

He leaves her by Admin. It's not a bad lie as such. An intense bending of the truth, that's what it is. A malicious lie is too rich a term. A lie, yes, is something that is not true - but he is under the impression that bad lies and good lies exist. Lies are only bad if they hurt someone or something, surely. If they spare someone a worry, or whatever it is she is feeling toward him, it surely can't be anything but positive. If it's meant with someone's best interests at heart, it can't be wrong, can it?

Nevertheless, he'll procrastinate and make excuses until she finds someone else as a side project to fix. There'll be some drama. Someone will feel broken. She'll fix them, the same way Saint Charlie swoops in to mend a fractured heart at any chance he gets. It is as guaranteed as the sun rising each morning.

Ethan changes in record time, loops his stethoscope in its rightful familiar place around his neck and gets to work.

* * *

 **IseultLaBelle:** _Aw I'm happy you do! That makes perfect sense. Glad that worked out - characterization is one of my favourite things to write besides description so I'm glad it worked out well. I hope you enjoy chapter three, thank you for your review!_

 **InfinityAndOne:** _Ah thank you for your vote of confidence dude! Hehe aw. Glad to hear - if nobody was intrigued, I'd be doing a really bad job haha, aw I hope you enjoy this next one - thank you for your review!_

 **Casfics:** _Yay! It's good you liked the staging of it; thank you for your review!_

 **20BlueRoses:** _Here's the next one! I hope you like it. Thank you for your review!_

 _Thank you to Catherine4, IseultLaBelle and carebear02 for following this story._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four**

* * *

Ruth stands, greying black hair tucked into her jumper, and rests against the counter. She's about as threatening as a ball of wool; her slowed actions and papery wrinkled skin around her eyes is reminiscent of his late grandmother. Ethan is hesitant around her though - not out of fear of her _herself_ , but fear of what she could tell him

"Tricky business, being a doctor."

It's one of the first statements Ruth has made. He takes it as a cue to start the ball rolling of this conversation, ceasing to fidget underneath her table.

He sits on the wooden chair in her kitchen, half-watching the birds in the teeny yet overgrown garden. "I suppose so, yes," he says, glad of the light subject. "It's definitely something that one can't do without dedication."

"You must really like helping people."

He smiles. "It's not quite that simple." He'd love for his motives simply to be helping people; it'd make it simple. Always keep you motivated. It's far deeper rooted than that, and he doesn't think now is the best time to delve into _that mess_. "What is it you do?"

"Nowadays, I freelance. I used to waitress at the local cafe until my arthritis kept me from holding trays. Dee's Diner."

"Afraid I don't know it - not local."

"Right, of course. Cal said you both lived in Holby together."

Excitement leaps into his chest, and he can't squash it down. "He mentioned me?"

"Not in great detail. Only that you both took care of Matilda together, when she was abandoned by that... awful woman." Her face flashes with angry annoyance, and he's taken aback. Evidently, nowadays, he wears his emotions on his sleeves when faced with surprises, and she backtracks. "Sorry. Defensive. Even when someone is gone, you still find yourself being all lioness and protective over them."

"I understand that."

"I suppose you want to ask why I let her go, don't you?"

He knew it'd be her who got the difficult part of the conversation going before him. "It's... definitely something I wondered. Especially as you still seem to care so deeply about her, I did suppose what happened," He clasps his hands. "But there's a lot of questions. I wasn't sure when it was a good time."

"Please. Don't let me stop you."

"Right, well. There's not a fantastic place to start." He chuckles nervously - comes out like a puff of air. "But, the main one, I suppose. Why did Cal want to see Matilda? When was it, exactly?"

"It was sometime in March of 2017. Over a year ago... And unfortunately, I have no idea. He just popped up out of the blue, saying he knew her, and it started from there, really."

Ethan hides his disappointment by laughing. "Great start."

"Sorry. I do know that he wanted to check on her. His motives were unclear." Genuinely apologetic, she pulls out a chair and sits oppositely to him. "Though sometimes, I do wonder if anyone truly understands why they do what they do."

"Well, why did _you_ adopt Matilda?"

"My husband and I, we temporarily foster children. Or we did. In our old house, our old life. She was one of them. Quite a challenge, actually, in all her beauty."

"Oh. I always got the impression she'd grow to be quiet. Stubborn, but... quiet."

"She was. Quiet, I mean. That was the problem. Usually, she was so outgoing, according to the care home. It was our job to get her back to her old self - bubbly and excitable."

Ruth continues. "She was in a home with an older couple and their child. The Winters. They adopted her, but she was getting nightmares being there. So they sent her back to the care home. My husband and I occasionally fostered her just to get her used to being in a family again. Care homes, their goals are, obviously, to get them into families."

Ethan's forehead creased in confusion, so much he can feel it. "Why the nightmares?"

"The problem was the mother. We think that Matilda got worried around her, hence the bad dreams."

Confusion takes a hasty turn into indignance. "If she was worried about the mother, surely that's an issue? What if she was being abused by the mother?"

"She had no bruises."

"Bruises aren't the only evidence of abuse."

"Don't think we didn't consider it or look into it," she says. "There's no chance that we'd have let her go back to them - _when_ she was ready, just recently - if that was the case."

"W-what? Surely, you didn't?"

"The Winters didn't do anything!" She laughs, but he can tell she's getting frustrated. "Listen. My husband got sick. It costs too much, far too much. We couldn't temporarily provide foster homes anymore - look at this new place, it's a mess. The paint is coming off because it's so wet in this room from the mould. The windows have a nasty draught. Our neighbour bangs nails into the fence. It's not safe. We knew we had to let her go. And the care home isn't a proper home for anybody."

He remembers the letter quite suddenly. _We are unaware of her next home. The pain of losing her is so great, I asked concretely not to be informed._

"In the letter, you said that you didn't know where her next home would be. But you did. You lied?"

"I didn't want your brother to know all the details," she admits after a shameful pause. "I knew he wouldn't approve."

He lets out a breath, short and frustrated.

She keeps justifying it. "The Winters are good. She's not their first adopted child, you know. Their oldest son, they adopted him too. They're credible. Cal got it wrong, they were the family for her - once they overcame hurdles."

"How did the care home allow this?"

"Matilda said she wanted to go back to the Winters. Begged, even."

Ethan opens his mouth to speak, abruptly shutting it again. She's made up her mind - the choice made, to her, was the right one. Yet he can see there was a problem there. Moving a child back into a home if they'd expressed concerns about it is the worst decision he can think of.

If he tries, he can justify it. A possibility of Matilda being uncomfortable around the mother could be because she'd never had one, or somehow recalls bad memories from an extremely young age. But it can't be that. Ethan was adopted - he doesn't remember anything from Emilie. And he was _two,_ then. Matilda was barely born. If he can't remember the trauma of being dragged away wrongly and dramatically from his mother and put into care, the likelihood of Matilda remembering being left alone on a bed, abandoned, is slim to none.

He stands, hand to the side of his face, rubbing, confused. It doesn't make sense. Ruth watches him lean against the counter, and she tuts.

"Just like your brother."

"What?"

"He always wanted her to stay more time at ours, or the care home. I know he was convincing her to stay in the care home rather than go to the Winters."

 _Yes, for good reason._

Ruth has her hands on the table, lightly shaking in an old-lady rage, held together by her knitted jumper. "It was obvious why. He wanted to adopt her himself when she went back into care. Ruin her chances of going elsewhere, so he could have her. Like a toy. Raising her as a baby for a precious few weeks doesn't give him automatic rights. If he had have been alive when I sent her to the Winters, he'd have had a fit. But he never found out."

Fiercely protective, he stands up straighter and clenches his hands behind his back. "Cal wasn't like that! Neither am I. I just want to understand why my brother did what he did, surely, you must understand that"

"Yes, well, most time, the reasons are hiding in plain sight." She quips frustratedly. "I can't help you, Ethan."

He nods hastily before he says anything he'll regret.

Ethan can't hate her. She was doing what she thought was right. Maybe that's all any of us can do.

"It's alright. I've got more information already - that's a bonus, right?"

Her face wrinkles. "Cut the project before it begins, alright. You could drive yourself mad, worrying about this stuff."

"Don't worry, most people in my family dance - or _did_ , anyway - with madness, but it tends to disappear before engulfing us."

"Right," she nods uncertainty, chin lifted. "That's a rather strange metaphor."

"If Cal said anything about me, you'd know that strange metaphors aren't rare."

"Unfortunately, I didn't speak with him a lot. Your name barely cropped up. He came round to talk with Matilda. They'd play games and I'd sit back with a cup of tea."

Ethan pulls his chair out, sitting back down again. It feels far less confrontational if he's sitting. "What sort of games?"

"She liked little dogs. Polly Pocket little dogs. They're antiques, at this point. He'd give her toy ones occasionally," she smiles, lips over teeth. "He did help her open up, admittedly."

He can't help it, smiling too as he says it. "Not such a bad person, then."

Ruth sucks her teeth, stands again, and switches the kettle on. They have tea in thoughtful silence.

* * *

"I apologise if I was defensive earlier."

Standing on the doorstep, ready to go, he's surprised at her change of heart as he's about to leave. Most people, when being firm, are that and unapologetic. She's hot and cold. "Were you?"

"I think so." She says, wrapping her arms around her jumper. "I _do_ miss Matilda. Giving her up was one of the hardest decisions of my life. But I couldn't be selfish. We were fond of her, of course, but it was always going to be temporary. The plan was for her to overcome struggles and go back to The Winters, where she belonged."

"I understand that. It must be difficult. Will your husband be back to health soon? Perhaps you could continue temporary fostering."

Tight-lipped, she shakes her head. "The illness is terminal. Meaning expensive. Meaning hopeless. Meaning I'll be husband-less with a debt that'll take me through to old age. No, I'll go on to live life alone."

"Nobody should live alone."

"No," she looks at him thoughtfully, and he feels awfully like he's being told off. "They _shouldn't_."

He zips his coat. "Thank you for your time." They say goodbyes, and he leaves with more questions than he came with.

* * *

 **IseultLaBelle:** _Ah I'm so happy you notice the little bits in there. They've certainly got an interesting relationship so it was fun to put it in there. I'm glad the characterization was alright. Hope you enjoy the next chapter, thank you for your review!_

 **20BlueRoses:** _Completely - his life has hardly changed since Cal died, it's simply minus a person. He's living their life alone and the lack of Cal in the places he always used to be, makes his grief even harder to ignore, if that makes any sense at all. I took inspiration from the 30th anniversary for that part! The lonely have to find family wherever they can *sobs with you* aw I'm happy you're liking it so far! Thank you for your review and continual support!_

 **InfinityAndOne:** _Definitely depends on the situation! Ahh here is the remedy to you being intrigued. I'm really glad to hear - thank you for your review!_

 _Thank you to Madman2.60 for favouriting this story._

 _ **a/n:**_ _i left a note on "burning bridges" in explanation to my absence. i hope to update this story more often as the chapters are manageable and small, by my standards :D_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter five**

The lamp light buzzes. Blinds are drawn closed. Ethan is sitting cross-legged on Cal's cold floor. It's one of the few times he's managed to step into this room without being pushed.

Everything is how it was. The drawers remain ruffled through. The ivory-coloured curtains are permanantly dragged half-open. Touched by Cal's messy hand. There's a half-empty glass of water that Ethan never had the heart to take away. He never even considered cleaning all the junk away. It just wasn't on his radar. The forbidity of entering without hearing a "come in" makes him feel like a criminal.

It felt wrong to root around in Cal's room, but he had to. It wasn't like he'd be able to go the remainder of his life without doing so. One day he'd have to move on.

Just... not today.

He's tapping away at Cal's laptop, in search of answers - the password was, as expected, _'Matilda'_.

Just before he died, Cal invested in a new laptop to research medical procedures efficiently to prepare for surgeon training; Ethan's laptop and iPad apparently weren't up to scratch. Ethan's stomach clenches when he reads documents, half-finished. Never to be completed. Last opened in the early months of 2017. He reads through all of them, and the dates change to now. Himself and his brother are the only people who'd have ever read them. They're not going anywhere now.

It's disappointingly bare besides the documents. A couple social media tabs stayed, frozen on year old status updates. Refreshing it, Ethan reels back with the immense ' _rest in peace_ ' messages. He scrolls downwards to older posts, reading ageing ones where Cal joked with friends with slews of missed inside jokes and timestamped pictures.

Most of them are situated at the hospital. During a cigarette break, grabbing a coffee, snapped before an awaited ambulance pulls up, himself dressed in jeans and scrubs. They're mainly blurry - Cal never cared enough to make everything flawless, and even perfectionist Ethan adores the effect of them. Cal was having too much fun to take properly focused photos. Always living in the now - or the _then_.

Of course, there's none of Cal and Matilda one there. Cal wouldn't hide the truth in plain sight, it wasn't his style. He was discarded beer bottles under the bed and laughter behind a hand covered mouth and secret letters scrunched in the back of pinewood drawers. He wouldn't risk posting anything, not when there was the slightest possibility of Ethan finding out. For once, Cal was careful. Upmost secrecy.

The worst part is, Cal probably was right to hide it. Ethan wouldn't understand. He'd have been awful over the entirety of the situation.

He rustles through the laptop case. Amongst various medical notes with awful handwriting, coffee rings and ink spills, a thumbstick hides. Ethan jabs it into the laptop.

Photos flood onto the screen. He never could get Cal's phone to work again after the rain damage; but fortunately, it all looks backed up to this thumbstick. Cal was a nostalgic person and took special care to always preserve memories, even if he didn't care about much else.

There are hundreds. Mainly of people - there are entire albums dedicated to certain ones. Charlie, Max, Fletch. The biggest is the one with _'Nibbles'_ written on it, an embarrassingly authentic picture of Ethan tucked into the armchair, half asleep, book tucked against his leg and cushion, the television lighting up his face. Familiar glasses rest loosely in his hand. That was obviously going to be emotional blackmail, once upon a time.

The second largest album is labelled _'Matilda'_. Last added to in March of 2017. A smiling blond little girl pops up, on a green lawn with a toy dog clutched in her chest. Cal is beside her, grinning, and he looks happier than he's ever been.

Without Ethan.

 _Matilda._

 _Matilda baby dumped at hospital._

 _Taylor Ashbie Matilda._

 _Dr Knight baby._

He never knew the right searches to do to get what he wanted. Cal was always good at that. Ethan would be still trying to find the Google icon whilst Cal had found the definiton of the word, how to use it in a sentence, and what time it was too.

It doesn't help that cubicles has patients peering in and out of cubicles. During the night shift, the lights are dimmed, there's a slither of peace, and people speak quieter. It smells of coffee. When Ethan turns, he sees Charlie, holding two polestryrene cups, watching him.

Ethan deletes his tab. "Hi."

"Thought you looked like you needed this." He offers a cup easily.

"I do. Thanks. Life saver."

"Comes in the job description, doesn't it?"

Ethan smiles, face scrunched with effort. "It does."

Charlie comes to his side as Ethan takes a tentative sip. "When is this report due, then?"

"Wha- what report?"

"Whatever report you're frying your brains out on that computer for," Charlie says, removing his cup lid. Condensation rolls down the inside. "You've barely moved an inch all night."

"I'm was just nothing to do, and I..." he pauses, guilty. "There is no report. It's just...research."

"Research?"

"Research."

"For?"

For a moment, Ethan considers telling Charlie everything. It would feel so good to offload and tell him exactly what's been eating him. The questions, the answers, what he ought to do. Is it something to be left or could he not even think of it? Ethan knows Charlie is the perfect antidote to a worried mind. And Charlie knows that too.

Yet the words are jammed in his throat, like a sob he couldn't let out. Knowing he ought to keep it to himself. He doesn't know enough. He needs to know more.

What is there to tell, really?

"Research for the new place I'm considering moving to," Ethan says easily. "I'm checking it's within walking distance of here, whether there's a good chain of stores in the area…" he pauses. "Checking the reviews of the local pub, too." _Felt like Cal then._

Charlie chuckles. "And is it up to scratch?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm… doing my best to find somewhere new. Can't stay still forever, right? Got to keep moving. Keep going."

"That's right," Charlie says, and there's something strangled in his voice that he cannot place. "I'm proud of you for moving on, Ethan," he says eventually. Sincerely.

Ethan smiles too - face stiff and heart shameful with the guilt of accepting declarations of pride under false pretences. And still, it's even not the worst thing he's ever done.

 **InfinityAndOne:** _it's gETTING THERE. seriously you could hit that guy over the head with that huge ass Hint and he'd still blink, like, huh, sorry? wasnt listening? he's an idiot. but i love him. and it makes for good (i hope) content - if characters did as they should, id be outta business. thank you :) i appreciate your review and you._

 **20BlueRoses:** _im grateful for your curiosity - id be doing a bad job otherwise :) thank you so much, i really appreciate that._

 **IseultLaBelle:** _that's great! i'm so glad it's easy to pick up on. expecially since i seem to take so many accidental breaks from this story... gulp. yes, many questions and so little answers. that's a good way of putting it, you're right; it's the age-old tale of ethan picking up what cal left and trying to salvege something, ANYTHING, from the rubble. like nothing has really changed despite cal's absence. im glad to hear that - thank you for your support :)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

On his fourth night shift of the week, Ethan slips behind the reception desk to look on the abandoned computer. Few people crouch on plastic chairs. It is ghost-like. He's sure he can hear someone vomiting, but that could be him recalling noises like a ringing in his ear. It is silent and still. A couple of wheelchairs. Clinking against metal. Police officers, escorting a patient to the toilet. It is just him.

Ethan has decided to break a couple of rules. He knows he can't go to Ruth - she would surely knit him a cone of shame if he was to venture any further into these treacherous waters. She is very much in the mindset of, it's over, so it's done, and we must leave it. But he can't. He just can't.

He searches carefully for the name. _Matilda. Matilda Ashbie. Matilda Ashby. Matilda-_

He is convinced nobody is around until he hears the scuff of a trainer against the floor. It gives away their location.

Her voice is a low hiss. "What are you doing?"

"You don't have to whisper, Alicia," he says, nonchalantly minimising the tab with trembly hands. "Nobody is asleep in here."

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

He swallows back. Throat dry. "Just… nothing."

"Nothing? It looks like something to me."

"Alicia. Listen. She's a patient. I was just-"

"Treating _patients_! There's nobody _around_! Seriously, _why_ are you working? We didn't even _need_ the staff, _idiot_."

And just like that, the tension diffuses; ice melting in lukewarm water. He laughs. "Oh. Right."

She pulls out a desk chair and lowers it effortlessly. "Look," scoots herself beside him. "Why are you punishing yourself like this?"

"I'm not," he says.

"You are. Look at your eyes. You're exhausted. All this admin, it can wait. Can't make anyone else better until you have a nice and long sleep. Alright?"

"Yes. Yeah."

"How much caffeine have you had today?"

"I don't know, not exactly, goodness, I don't _inject_ it, Alicia, I just-" her sleep sodden glare shuts him up. "Seven coffees. Half a tea, but I left it somewhere and considered it dead to me after that."

"You're drinking too much."

"Don't tell me you haven't had at least five cups today," he says - not quite chiding, not like she is.

"This isn't about me."

"Who is this about then- or sorry, _what_ is this about?"

"You're my friend." His halved heart throbs a little at that word. He forces it to quieten itself. "I don't want to see you crippled with exhaustion, or… overworked. Especially when there's no need to be. I don't want you to get that way."

Somehow, his hand finds hers, and he squeezes it. "I won't, Alicia. I promise. I was going to go home in a few hours anyway."

"Define a few…"

"Alright, maybe… I was planning on staying on. But you know what, I'll go home. Just for you."

"Glad to see you listen - eventually."

He nudges her chair. It turns to the side, slightly. So she pushes his. Harder. It spins a full circle. He reaches out, turns hers. She squeals - painstakingly loud in the silence, making a dent in the quiet. They stop, biting back smiles.

He makes the first move; for once. But she's quicker; as usual. She spins his chair by the back and he manages to flail out, spinning hers. It's slow and messy and creaky but she finds delight in it, and so does he. Recalling back to younger times, simpler times - sitting on his Father's office chair, being spun by his brother, grasping ahold of tattered peeling leather. Squeals, childishly high pitched.

He spins, and she spins, and they're flailing their arms out, chuckling. They're fatigue drunk. He doesn't mind it. Nor does she. They are two of the same. Always have been.

Footsteps stop them. They barely hear from the faint squealing of the spinny chairs.

An officer eyes them suspiciously. Watches for a moment, then moves on, back heavy and laboured.

They chuckle to themselves, gleeful and smug, chairs halted. Like they both have a secret together; a wonderful one.

The only person here with a secret is Ethan, he notes, behind a dizzy smile - chewing him up.

The next day, he is in a state of exhaustion. He feels he could sit down any moment and be left in a heavy nap spanning over too many hours. But he's actually meant to be working today - and even though Mrs Beauchamp would allow him to leave, if he asked (grief and the sympathies one receives from it can be shamefully yet fantastically useful), he doesn't. His pride can't take it. One too many knocks.

So he stays on - beating his record for most coffees consumed. He's considering a quick power nap in the secrecy of the locker room - there's a wonderfully soft chair he could melt into, shielded by mirrors if he angles himself right - when an emergency call to resus distracts everyone.

He steps gracefully out of the way of elephant-like stomps, flattened against the wall as the tide of people rolls to resus. And he notices the emptiness of the little area by cubicles. The compters, un-used. Unwanted. Unguarded...

He rushes over immediately and logs on. Opens up patient records. His fingers are shaking - he could get in trouble, he knows this.

Always a stickler for rules. Always wanting to do what was right. _Ruled_ by the rulebook.

There are no guidelines for this. There never was any guidelines for his brother.

He's growing out of "be more Cal" phase, but he still dips into it when he needs to. Still delves into the intimacy of it. Times were messy then. He finds solace in them now.

It was so much better then. He never saw it all taking such a drastic, grab-of-the-wheel, sharp left turn. Then again, he supposes he's able to tie up loose ends now. Fix the mysteries left behind.

He's got to work this out. For his brother's sake.

One swift sentence: _Matilda Winters_. The one he didn't get to check yesterday. He assumes she took their surname legally. He swipes, quickly, quivering. Knows her birth date off by heart - remembers the day it all fell apart for Cal, one of the many times it did.

The day he was there to scoop Cal off of his feet and help him warm up formula milk, barely feeling scolds on his wrist from the milk; hardly believing they were in this situation. Driving around at night, wailing baby in the backseat. Cal, hunched over, like he was grieving for a loss, Ethan watching, never sure what to do. When he managed to loop his arm around his waist, hold him tight. Be his safety net. Whether it meant to throw himself at mad money-crazed men, to save his brother's wrist, he would. Whether it meant wander to the off-licence for baby toys, because Cal couldn't quieten Matilda, he would. Always would.

He wonders how different she looks. Can't believe that there was a day they had to accept, _hey, Cal, those aren't your eyes, and they never will be..._

He snaps back to the now. Screen loads up. And there she is, in virtual form.

Matilda Winters. Now four years old.

She lives in Holby. _Still?_ What are the chances of that?

He always was one for signs. This is like the dagger guiding Macbeth to Duncan - a clear sign to do what he was questioning. He sees it as a _yes_. That he ought to continue on. He's gotten this far. Risked his career, to an extent. Why let it go now?

He presses the print option for her notes. There is no time. He isn't letting this go. Not yet.

 **20BlueRoses:** _what can i say, i'm never excluding cal from stories. that'd mean accepting reality, hehe. but nowadays, funnily enough, it feels he's been gone for so long that i can't believe he ever was in casualty. so weird. anyway, thank u for your review! i very much hope you're still reading my stuffs._

 **IseultLaBelle:** _don't be! it's cool. aah sounds tiring! naww thank you. i find suspense hard to write because i'm super impatient, just generally, hahaha. i hope questions get answered soon. thank u for your review! i hope you're still reading. i'm still reading your stuff, by the way, really sorry i haven't been reviewing regularly :(_

 **InfinityAndOne:** _absolute shambles. i'm so mad you never reviewed... dont even come round these parts agaiN ! no but ahh, i'm happy u liked this one! definitely up there with one of the woRST DECISIOns- oh well. thank u for reviewing, my lovely friend._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

* * *

 _In amongst light trickling away like sand through an hourglass, two shadows float together. It's a tender sort of dancing. Long limbs tangle together with gliding motions. A feathery mane of hair on one - lengthy and tumbling, fingers carding through it. Ribs connect as close as they can with skin as a barrier. Bodies slide together effortlessly, similarly to puzzle pieces coming together._

 _Close enough to feel the way the air breathes with them, but too distant away to hear their pure message behind melodious giggles, he watches, unable to see features, amongst contorted snatches of flesh. They're smudged like pastels. Laughs sound familiar. Palms press together lightly, his own palms just feel cold and numb. He wants release, wondering why he feels so restrained and stuck, yet entranced by this sight, two bodies dancing almost as one, gaspy laughter._

 _It is as beautiful as it is haunting. He feels a pricking on his spine. Eyes adhered to the scene - anything else is a secondary thought. Ethan watches the scene until he hears beeping leaking into his skull, then an abrupt smacking from the ceiling above._

He awakes at ten to seven to a blaring alarm clock and a furious neighbour. Black-out curtains leave the room cloaked in darkness - however, he swears he sees the figures underneath the high window he stumbles to, dancing amongst the trees, laughter sounding familiar. Blond hair with pink tips alongside a tall man in jeans; lost in the darkness and madness.

* * *

Streetlight is smudgy and golden outside of the pub window. Another long day at work - another pub crawl he had no interest in attending. Without his glasses, the scenery looks like it's underwater but he needs a break from his 24/7 work contact lenses. Familiar voices are all he has to guide him, sitting amongst a handful of colleagues, squinting his eyes to see all hands curled around sweating beer glasses on ringed corkscrew mats.

They talk about hospital events he's oblivious to - notable patients he's failed to notice as unconventional, because all the faces bleed into one, hardly noticing if they have funny or amusing injuries, just fixing them up and sending them off. It isn't that he isn't paying attention, because he _is_ , it's simply that he does his job and no more. He just looks forward to clocking out and stays introverted. It gets too much to deal with other people's problems. Even in his sleep, he can hear the blending voices, listlessly explaining symptoms, continuing on. Though he hasn't ever been the sort of person to sleep peacefully, even as a child - his mother used to say he may as well not sleep at all, as a baby he would squirm and whimper and need reassurance. He supposes old habits die hard. A colleague slams a glass down overenthusiastically and he jumps.

Ethan recalls sitting side-by-side with his Cal most evenings, having his first date with Alicia in here, and his first drink in here without Cal, all on separate occasions, all equally as memorable, even if some he struggled to recall flawlessly. In all honesty, he can't remember a lot of what occurred on the night Cal died. He remembers the downpour, a couple of phrases floating in his mind (Jacob's hoarse ' _Ethan_ ', and Connie telling Charlie to accompany the broken mess he undoubtedly was) and feelings, like waxy skin against his alive skin and sore eyes, but it doesn't go together in a sequence.

On occasion, he questions whether or not he was there. If he wanted, he could ask how it all happened. Closure. Perhaps. He knows it's possible to live on but you will never be the way you were before, and he hates going over old territory. Besides, he's behaving under the illusion that he's fanned away grief like a smatter of dust. And he has. But he can't pretend that Cal isn't always on his mind, because he is.

Sometimes, he struggles to restrain a calling of the name " _Cal_ ", especially at work, where the hospital painfully reminds him of everything they were. If someone teases him, he immediately wants to scold them with a strict " _Cal_ ". Or when he's in need of assistance, anything, he'll find his brain going to that name, immediately, and if it does slip out, he feels a shock, like the way his beer feels awfully cold in his otherwise warm empty stomach.

As far as his colleagues are concerned, they've shed grief. And he gets it. Losing family is horrific but it is different from losing a colleague. Perhaps if they really try, they can think of his beloved Cal like a patient they knew and lost, rather than someone they saved lives with, dined with, spoke with. Even now, they laugh over nothing, unaware that someone's voice is lost in the chorus when Ethan is always painfully aware that Cal is absent.

A large number of the women flood in from their later shift, some still in scrub trousers, all chatting, and Ethan can't see clearly enough, but he is fairly certain that the particular blue woollen coat belongs to Alicia, blonde hair tumbling down her back.

It has taken a long time to see Alicia differently. She's managed to brush what happened to Cal, and between them, under the rug. He applauds her hardiness but misunderstands it. He's aware she loved Cal - it's taken him a long time to realise that, as a brother, Ethan just loves Cal a lot more, and that's how it is, and she does care of his loss, just... not as much. He manages to see her as a person now rather than a symbol of grief. Can smile at her without remembering her teary eyes trying to reassure him, when he was falling apart from grief, bent in two in the staff room, hardly unable to comprehend the dead body he'd seen.

She loves the notion of moving on and bettering oneself - fair play to her. He hopes she doesn't come over and ask about the flat viewing. Ethan isn't sure he can stomach another lie, nauseous from eating too long ago.

Ethan puts on his glasses to check his phone. Nothing. It is ten to twelve and he wishes he was tucked into bed, though his nightmare previously makes the prospect of sleep far less appealing.

A hand snatches his glasses away and the table erupts into laughter. Ethan joins in, politely, temporarily legally blind, but like usual, he never understands what's so funny and why people like to laugh so loudly.

After a bit, Ethan stands up to get a new drink without saying a word, hoping half-heartedly he doesn't seem gloomy. People have accepted he isn't the happy-go-lucky person he used to be. Frankly, he's too tired to pretend half the time and stays neutral. Ethan orders a beer, no ice, unlike usual, because it makes the bartender wince, and feels a hand squeeze his forearm.

"You didn't see me?"

"No specs," he explains. "I recognised your coat, though."

"Too garish?"

"It's unique."

Alicia leans in closer like she's going to tell him a secret. "Are they annoying you? You're welcome to sit with me and Louise instead. I know they can be exhausting."

"It's all right. I don't have long before it's socially acceptable to slink away home."

"If you're sure. Perhaps they're a little offended you went off to get a drink alone."

"Well, I'll make sure to kiss and make up, if their feelings are fractured from something as silly as that," he grumbles, she giggles, squeezes his arm again, and walks back to Louise, who Ethan doesn't have to see to know is impatiently awaiting her pint.

Ethan sits next to who he realises is Charlie, sliding on his glasses. The faces around the table feel strangely new despite the years he's had to become accustomed to them. It's just that no conversation ever feels the same without the jibes from his brother. Charlie's hand grazes Ethan's shoulder, which is a gesture of solidarity, he supposes. Is he really _that_ much of a wet blanket?

Later, Alicia walks by, saying she's off, and will see everyone tomorrow. Ethan does the same under the (genuine) excuse to walk her to her car. Darkness bites him. He makes sure she's safe before he gets into his own car. She can be irritating and giggly and over-concerned and snarky, but he'll always have a place in his heart for her.

* * *

Stepping over a dozen brown-taped boxes, Ethan hangs his worn coat on the special hook (there are two - he utilises the spare one with his keys). It is brazenly silent so he switches on the radio and pays attention to the soft hum of it.

He busies himself with piling a few boxes. One falls, sending a cascade down, and he hears a loud smashing from the interior. Ethan could cry. He takes a moment before seizing a broom to clean his mess. After, he sinks into the sofa, eating whatever odd vegetables he found in the back of the fridge mixed in with plain pasta, only finishing half.

He's felt a horrible dread in his stomach ever since he learnt about Cal's search for Matilda. Why did he want to see her and go to such lengths to keep it secret? It brings a sort of poisonous guilt. Was Ethan totally unapproachable, swept up in his unlawful affair with Alicia?

It was just about an hour before Cal died, they made up after the argument regarding the affair. Ethan wonders the sincerity of it. He also wonders if Cal knew what was coming. He seemed like he just wanted Ethan gone, to be safe. Ethan knows some of his last words were worries about his stupid little brother's wellbeing. It's possible Cal died with resentment for Ethan. _My brother slept with my girlfriend, lied about it, and now I'm dying because of him._

April was a horrific month, leading up to the 29th. He'd felt Cal's distance between him like a physical barrier. Particularly during the stag do. He doesn't remember a lot of it, admittedly, but he recalls the times he was tripped over, how Cal glared holes into him, the sly comments, as well as his own guilt. Cal never told him he knew, but they made up. Ethan backed Cal up during the feud with Strachan - he still holds hatred in his heart for removing Cal's surgical rotation, so cruelly and unnecessarily.

Cal didn't want to die, Ethan knows that much. It was a noble death but it shouldn't have happened. Now he'll ever know why Cal wanted to know Matilda so suddenly and what on earth he was planning to do. Did Cal actually, genuinely, _seriously_ want to adopt the little girl they gave up years ago, for reasons that hadn't changed? Was it simply nostalgia? Was he stressed about the issue with the Winters? Was he worried Matilda was being abused?

Ethan's head feels as though it's beginning to spin so he goes to bed. He lies, facing the ceiling, a slither of city light through his poorly drawn curtains, shadows of tall buildings. He remembers the shadows, dancing in his dream. Ghosts of a loving couple who drifted away.

Alicia's long hair and Cal's arms around her. A couple that Ethan helped to break up.

He lays in bed with guilt like a stone in his stomach.

* * *

 _ **InfinityAndOne:** thanks nerd :') he's totally engrossed, it's one of the only things he has left of cal so of course he's gonna throw himself into it. however there's a lot of stuff he simply will never know so it's not the beeeest thing he can do for his mental health... but will that stop him? no. thank u for your review!_

 _a/n: i have a sixth form interview this upcoming monday i HAAAAATE that... in other news, should be updating this every tuesday if i get my crap together :)_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

* * *

Often, Ethan can convince himself Cal is still alive. It'd be easy to pretend. Ethan finds a navy jumper, flattened underneath a stack of blankets on top of his washing machine; he picks it out and decides it's too nice of a jumper to throw out. Cal paid a lot for his clothes. _'Clothes make the man',_ he always said. Ethan didn't get that. Ethan tended to write a lot of what Cal said as nonsense. Nowadays, he tends to hang onto every last conversation they had in his memory - a gospel, he supposes, or something to hold on to.

The jumper has a hole in it, while subtle, it's all he can notice when he examines it. A thumb-sized hole, growing larger, has made a home in the left sleeve and the wool is beginning to unravel. He tries his best to stitch it back up, but he pricks his finger and cusses, and jumps as his alarm rings.

Time for work.

Ethan is late, engrossed in trying to fix a jumper for someone who isn't alive anymore. He fixes it then folds it to put into Cal's room. It was like something he felt he _had_ to do. He only realises the stupidity of it when trying to argue his case to Connie; that's when he recognises it can't be argued, because of how downright stupid it is.

"I'm sorry," he says, following her, shifting his stethoscope around his neck. "I'll work late, to make it up to you."

"Don't apologise to me - give apologies to everyone who had to attempt to cope with the influx of patients without a team member. It's a pyramid, Ethan. Without one piece, it all falls apart. You know this." Her eyes flit to his wringing hands. "And your thumb is bleeding."

The rest of his shift doesn't go much better. A flood of people are in need of treatment and he has to be a doctor. For five hours straight, he remains on his feet with no sustenance or even a decent level of sleep in his system.

He draws open the staff room fridge on his break. His meticulously labelled energy drink is absent. Without intending to, he slams it closed. A porcelain cup teeters on the edge. _Damn_. His hand flies out. _Idiot. That's going to be loud_. He barely catches it in time. In his mind, he pictures it smashing to the floor, the noise causing heads to turn, his cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. It, remarkably, remains in a solid piece, fully intact with no new scratches or cracks. An ironic laugh escapes his lips. Perhaps he isn't as hapless as he thinks he is.

"Nice save."

Ethan grapples with it again, flinching with surprise, head whipping to the side. Charlie stands, amused, holding a plethora of carrier bags. There is an entertained look on his face; eyebrows drawn, a smile playing on his lips.

"Thanks," Ethan says. He isn't sure if it's the sort of thing you say thanks to. "Are you going out?"

"We're clean out of tea bags. I've been given some pocket money, yes." Charlie lingers somewhat. "Would you like to-"

"I'll come. You know. Give you a hand."

Charlie looks relieved. "That'd be very kind of you. Thank you. If you're sure."

Ethan puts the cup on the dresser. His hand was still shaking. "I'm sure, of course I am. Just don't scare me like that again."

 _x-x-x_

Selfishly, Ethan ensures a vast supply of energy drinks. Charlie quirks an eyebrow at this.

"I've heard there's something that can keep you energised for free."

"What's that?"

"Sleep."

"Charlie," Ethan says, laughing lightly, like a breath. "Let me live."

They collect the necessities needed; teabags, cartons of milk, a specific pre-prepared baguette that was requested. Ethan remarks that microwave meals are a quick and smart alternative to people going hungry. Charlie caves and they queue up with a basket full of minute meals, energy drinks and all that medics need to function. Charlie sends Ethan off to collect a bag of apples. He doesn't see the joke in it until he realises he's still wearing his doctor scrubs, paired with his NHS hoodie, and then shakes his head.

Charlie lets several people go ahead of them. Ethan is beginning to get restless when they finally get to check out.

"How did you sleep?"

Ethan puts all the cartons in one bag, leaving the lighter items for Charlie. "Fine, I guess. Why? Did you lace my drink with something?"

Charlie feeds a crumpled twenty-pound note through the self-service machine. "Of course I did," he says. "So you haven't mentioned how the move is going. Duffy and I, we were considering moving too, if we can find anywhere. I see what you mean. It's hard to find a place. I digress, though, I _was_ going to say, if you need any help with lifting some boxes, collapsing some furniture... well, I'm no use to you, but some of the guys would be willing to help."

"I'll definitely... uh, keep that in mind." He toys with the idea of admitting he's made virtually negative progress, but he doesn't have to. Charlie pockets the change. "I hope you're giving that change back. We're underfunded enough as it is."

Charlie doesn't laugh; instead smiles in a strained sort of way, and Ethan feels like he's on the naughty step.

The air hits them as they exit the store. He feels a lot colder, all of a sudden, in his bones. "I swear I did try to look, Charlie, but-"

"You don't owe me anything. You know I just want to see you content. In my mind, a new place is better for you."

"I know, but I'm barely at the flat, really, so what difference does it make?"

"It's a big deal. It'll declutter your mind, knowing that there's just your room."

Ethan doesn't understand the urgency. "Surely, Charlie, it'd be the hospital that reminds me the most of-" he inhales sharply. "-Caleb. Not the flat. And I hope you're not suggesting I transfer elsewhere."

"Of course not. It wouldn't be the same without you."

"You'd be less of one wet blanket, admit that."

"No, no. You're no problem."

Ethan appreciates this and takes a particularly heavy bag to burden himself with, wordlessly. It digs into his arm until a temporary white mark appears.

"Listen, Ethan..." Charlie says, in a patient way, the wind beginning to pick up browned leaves. "I'm not trying to challenge you. This is my bread and butter, you know. Trying to help people out."

"Mine too," Ethan says. "But I'm not a charity case."

"Did I say you were?"

"You don't have to say it for me to know that's what you think."

"Ethan. Believe it or not, I do care. And I'm willing to listen. Any time. All the time, even. We're out of the ED. We have a good ten minutes until we're back and that's enough time for a conversation. About anything."

It sends Ethan's mind into a frenzy. He's heard this before, of course. Multiple people, particularly during his grief, brought it up, as easily as offering a cup of tea. I _f you want to talk about anything, you know I'm here._ Thoughtless. It _wasn't_ as simple as that. He couldn't launch into a conversation about unshed guilt or worries about a child he hasn't seen in years. He can't land that on Charlie, he can't _burden_ him with that. It would be unfair.

It was possible that Charlie could help. Ethan was always aware of the close bond him and Cal shared. It was fused together quickly and Ethan's unsure if Charlie ever stopped seeing Cal as a son. He remembers the care in Charlie's eyes, that night on the 29th. That fatherly guidance he had always longed for, but filled with warmth instead of cold. He could help, one of the few remaining links to his brother. Perhaps he knows something Ethan doesn't.

Etha's throat feels unfairly tight, his body tense at the prospect of talking about his brother. It has been so long since he's talked about him rather than just thought about him. He liked to pretend his grief was gone after the closure of the funeral. It wasn't. Of course. And he didn't fool anyone. Not even himself.

"I guess Cal has been on my mind."

"Of course. He's your brother. He always will be. Always causing you trouble."

"Yeah," Ethan laughs. "More so nowadays, I guess. I've been thinking about, well, what could've been. Stuff that I... ruined. I don't know. I messed up. A lot."

"Whatever you did, I'm sure he forgave you, Ethan. I promise. Family is good like that. Particularly a good brother like yours."

"I just want to do what's best for him."

Charlie doesn't talk for a moment. They cross a road, a group of young children, then Charlie says, "in what way?"

His mouth opens, he's aware it's flapping, trying to find something non-suspicious to say. "It doesn't matter." He's aware he's said far too much.

"It does. You don't talk for the sake of talking. Of course, it matters." Soft, but surprisingly firm, Charlie says a confident, "tell me."

"Well, I... I think he had a secret. Before he died."

"Right."

"I was... we weren't on good terms, the weeks, even a few hours before, leading to when he died. We made up, thank whatever God is up there that we did. I did something awful because he made me angry, and it wasn't fair, and we had a row, but... I'm saying there was a communication barrier, so all his thoughts and decisions were top secret. I wondered if he said anything to you."

"About anything in particular?"

Ethan swallows. "Matilda."

"Your mother? Well, I-"

"No, the baby. Taylor's. And... if he said anything about me or Alicia."

"Oh." Charlie sounds a little too surprised. It may be the cynic in Ethan. It probably _is_ the cynic in Ethan. "I don't know. It was incredibly busy leading up to the ending of April, I suppose I noticed he was a little tense with Strachan, a little frayed with you, but I never noticed anything wrong."

"I did find it odd how you and Alicia were found together that night, when really, it hadn't been long since she broke up with Cal."

"I'm not a good person, Charlie," guilt swills in his stomach. Still as raw as it always had been. As raw as it'd always be.

"I don't know what you did. But I _know_ he didn't hate you. You know some of his last words. He wanted to see you _safe_."

"Yeah, well, I was too busy playing about with his ex to be there, whilst he was on his deathbed, so that-" he inhales deeply, his eyes hot and itchy. "Did he say anything about the baby, Matilda?" he says, once he's calmer, less heated with guilt.

"Well, I don't know if it's my place."

"Privacy isn't as important when you're dead, Charlie."

"I'm not sure about that. I think if I was outlived by Duffy, would I want her rooting around all my dirty clothes? No, not really."

"It isn't like that. Charlie, I think... he wanted kids."

"Well, yes, probably, at that age, people always feel like they ought to be settled down with three kids and a dog by then, I imagine you'll be the same in a couple of years if you aren't already-"

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"You weren't on good terms, you said. Is it any surprise?"

"Well, no," the bags cut bluntly into his forearms. "I can't see why he would want to be a single parent, especially since he always was on the hunt for a girlfriend. Surely he'd look about, settle down... and why Matilda? Why her, in specific?"

"Perhaps it's a nostalgia thing. You know how your brother was about the past."

Ethan watches Charlie suspiciously. "You know more than you let on, I know that."

"Easy, you. I don't want this to spiral."

"Spiral?"

The hospital is bustling. They're dodging hospital trolleys and people clutching bandaged limbs before they know it, surrounded by hospital chaos. Ethan barely notices, patients and nurses alike brushing past him in haste.

Ethan slams the groceries down whilst Charlie, calmly, begins to put them away.

"He's my brother," Ethan says suddenly. Almost tearfully. If he wanted to, he could cry right now. He could cry angrily and dramatically until Charlie told him what he wanted, just to stem the tears. He could turn that play on easily. Like when he was a kid - holding his breath to get exactly what he wanted. Now, he finds his cheeks puffy with indignance, eyes stony and stinging.

"He is. Always. Nothing will take that away, just like nothing, unfortunately, can bring him back, no matter how much we obsess over it."

He feels his lip twitching. "Charl- _please_. It doesn't make any sense."

"Not everything has a reason for it. Sometimes it just is, all right?"

"He was always afraid of being a dad, you know that! Wouldn't want to turn out like ours. And I get that, truly, I do."

"Well, maybe that was why... why he didn't go through with it."

"With what? Adopting Matilda? Charlie, tell me what happened! I have to know all of it. You're giving me pieces of it and do you know what, that's worse than nothing at all!"

Charlie ignores his pleads and counts out money patiently - once, twice, thrice, recording it on a tiny note. Then he makes them both a cup of hot squash using boiled water. Ethan spends that time with a racing heartbeat, trying to breathe less raggedly through his nose, mouth stitched together, almost concreted closed, teeth gritted. He doesn't know how he's gotten so agitated. Barely an hour ago, he'd been able to laugh and joke and find himself in a comfortable conversation. Now he just wants to be sick.

"I'd hate for you to... fail to move on, Ethan."

"You know loss. You know it doesn't just _go away_."

"I know self-indulgence. I know obsession."

"What if I said that I suspected Cal wanted kids? Didn't tell me because he was mad at me? Because he did things he shouldn't?"

Charlie gestures for Ethan to come over. Begrudgingly, feeling pathetic, he walks past the island surrounded by stools, against the counter beside him. He rests into Charlie, feeling like he's boiling.

"Some things are better left alone."

"What if I proved I was doing better? Would you be less afraid of upsetting me? If I left my flat, moved on, hell, _burnt all his stuff_ , would you consider telling me why he got in touch with Matilda's adoptive family, why he _failed_ to tell me?"

Charlie puts an arm around him. Ethan doesn't resist, but he is angry and trembling, and just wanting to know why.

"I thought of your brother as a son, and I... still do. I refuse to hurt you with the knowledge you can't get closure from, because at the end of the day, he isn't here. Because you'll feel guilty for it, and there's no need because we move on, and I refuse to see you in pieces."

"It's about the affair. You know about that."

"It's all right."

"It isn't. I was evil, and vindictive, I lied and hurt him repeatedly, and-"

"Ethan. It takes two."

"Alicia doesn't have the loyalty to Cal that I did. Yeah, we slept together, behind his back, but I'm his brother. That's worse. That's horrific."

"She was his girlfriend and she saw you behind his back, that's bad too, right?"

"You said guilty... was the affair the reason he didn't go through with it?"

"Ethan, I'm not going to confirm or deny anything, so-"

He pushes away, almost knocking over a mug in the process. "Stop saying my name like that! I'm not a child or an _invalid_. I'm asking you because I feel ready, and you said I could talk to you about anything!"

"You can."

"Then tell me the whole story! Did he go to see our dad? He's the only family we have left, besides a few aunts... was he going to ask for help with the adoption? Does my dad know?"

Charlie merely looks at him with pitying eyes and Ethan could scream.

He pulls his own hair frustratedly, knuckles white. Wishing his brother spoke to him. Irritated, because some truths are lost that can't be recovered, and nothing, absolutely nothing, upsets him more than not knowing.

The staff room door clicks closed. Charlie's soft but sturdy grip turns him back, unhooking his hands from the troubled wringing he's doing. Pulls him closer, and Ethan resists, but eventually, he knows he has lost the battle. He relaxes. He's embraced by one of the few fatherly influences he's ever had.

He never needed a dad. He had a Cal.

But was Ethan a good enough substitute for a father for his brother? Or did Cal _need_ that?

"Charlie," he mumbles, into the navy of his scrubs. "Please help me find my dad. I need to see him. Please. Just... please."

"I will. All right, I will. If you promise, go home, get some rest, I'll sign you off for today, Connie will understand..."

Ethan lets Charlie stroke circles on his back, feeling the frustration lower in intensity. His back is stiff, knuckles clenched. The question ' _why_ ' is so blatant. It's enough to drive him insane. He thinks of Cal's woollen jumper, stitched up at home, and wishes he could fix this situation as painlessly.

 _x-x-x_

 _a/n: credit to ThatFanFicWriterCalledNaomi for beta-reading this chapter for me :)_


End file.
